Broken
by xxClosingTimexx
Summary: And it was broken. Just like him." Musa's father after her mother's death. My entry for the Magixclub forum fanfiction contest.


His insides seemed to melt when her hand went limp in his. He got up, disorientated and walked to the door, despite the look his daughter was giving him. His wife. His sweet, beautiful wife, who was his everything, was gone. He turned to have another look at her face and his whole body seemed to come alive with anger. Why her? Why did this have to happen to him? He wasn't a bad person. He was good to people, he didn't steal or murder. All he did was play music at what could have been considered shady establishments. _Play music…_he thought, feeling revulsion creep over him. She was his music. He didn't want music without her. He ran from the room as fast as could to the music room. He didn't want these. Not without her. He picked up the drum closest to him and smashed it against the wall with a surprising amount of strength, considering he'd felt like he'd never move again a few minutes ago.

"Daddy?" came a meek, tearful voice. "What are you doing?"

He straightened up. "Go away, Musa. I need to be alone." He hissed through his teeth.

"But…daddy?"

"Go!"

All he heard was a whimper and he felt a slight pang of remorse, but the anger still hung over him. He picked up his cello and smashed it to the ground, snapping it. He didn't need it. He didn't want it. Not without her. He turned and ran around the room in frenzy, smashing instruments as went. The distorted sounds of a violin, a piano, a trumpet, a flute breaking erupted around him making a symphony of crashes, groans and screeches. Puffing, he sank to his knees. How was this fair? Nothing about this was just. The two of them hadn't done anything wrong. Not ever. He threw his head into his hands, groaning.

Then the anger washed and away and was replaced with a stabbing grief. How would he go on? Looking at her face in pictures, sleeping in their bed alone, bringing up their daughter by himself. Musa. Musa could be a problem. How was he to look into her eyes, his wife's eyes, without being reminded of what had happened? He didn't know, and he wasn't ready, not yet, to find out. Thoughts were still running in out of his mind in a chaotic blur. Running his hands through his hair, he let out a long gasp of breath. He still didn't cry. He felt like her could, but he didn't. Crying seemed like a sort of acceptance of what had happened. Maybe if he didn't accept it, it wouldn't be so true. So real. So, no, he didn't want to accept what had happened. He refused to even try. That was juvenile, but he felt like he had a right to be childish right now, even if that wasn't what she would've wanted. He felt selfish about that, but he also liked being childish about it. Acting like that almost blocked it out, with a childish innocence that people only genuinely had when they were babies. _If Musa was a baby_, he reflected in anguish,_ it'd be so much easier for both of us. _But she wasn't, and he was going to have to get them both through this, no matter how painful.

It'd be so hard for her though, being brought up by a man. Little girls needed their mothers. More than they needed their fathers. Their mothers would be the one who they would turn to whenever they had some of kind of problem. He didn't know he was going to bear with that. A stepmother was completely out of the question. Right now, he couldn't even fathom being with somebody else. He didn't think he ever could. He had been lucky enough to find his soul mate early in life. Now she had been torn from him. He wished he had been taken instead.

He knew he had to be strong through this, to keep himself and his daughter on their feet, but he didn't want to be strong. What he really wanted was to curl up into a ball and die himself. He felt like he was a zombie, going through his thoughts so lifelessly. He still wanted to cry. But still couldn't. He couldn't quite understand why. He had gone through so many emotions, but he just felt listless now. Listless, floating. He had felt enough anguish to cry, but the tears didn't come.

He rose, on wobbly legs, and inspected the damage he had inflicted to the room. It shocked him that, he could create such a chaotic mess. There was debris from the instruments covering the floor, like a carpet of mess. Photos off the mantle were smashed on the ground. There was paint peeling off the dented walls. He wasn't surprised by that. The house was so cheap; the walls weren't particularly good quality. What really jarred him was the cracked mirror. He hadn't even noticed that. He stumbled over the mess towards the ornate glass, now only retaining a shred of its former glory. It was one of the nicer things in their house. It was hers. He felt like he was going to be sick. One of the only things he had of her. They had sold most of their own possessions, but this was one of the only things they hadn't bought as a couple. He had scoffed at the fact she kept it; he thought it was tacky. He stared at his face in the cracked glass. It was distorted by the shards, which would probably fall out with even the gentlest of touches. His face was pale, red and purple ringed his eyes, his lip was cut. He hadn't noticed that either. He was a mess. And then there was this one mirror that he had once scorned, behind her back. He felt like he was sneering at her behind her back _now_. The only thing he had left of his wife was not a thing of beauty. It was ugly, deformed, twisted. He had only worked to make it more so.

The emotion shot through him like he was being stabbed. The pain was now indescribable. That was when one tear, one tiny tear, fell from his eye, leaving a marked track in the blood on his lip. He didn't wipe it away, even though the salt stung the cut. That one tear suddenly made the whole thing a horrible reality for him. But he just stared. Stared at what he had done. Ruined their music. The one passion they shared. And it was broken. Just like him.


End file.
